


Floating

by scarletmanuka



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Sibling Incest, Teenlock, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 22:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletmanuka/pseuds/scarletmanuka
Summary: Mycroft brings homes a boyfriend when he visits for the holidays and Sherlock does not react well.





	Floating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



The first time Mycroft brought a ‘friend’ home for the holidays, Sherlock was not impressed. To be fair, Toby Russell was not impressive. At all. Born and raised in London, he acted suave and sophisticated by looking down on everything, labeling everything as  _ quaint  _ or  _ twee _ . The family had driven to the train station to pick the couple up and he’d used the phrases so much just during the drive through the village that Sherlock had muttered that they should stop off at the bookstore to buy him a thesaurus. Mycroft had been sitting in the middle of the backseat and he nudged Sherlock with his elbow in a silent reminder to be polite, but when the boy had looked over he had caught the amused smile tugging at the corners of his big brother’s lips. 

They arrived home, the manor house coming into view but even this didn't impress the city man. Granted, it had been in the family for generations and the Holmes’ had long since forgone the practice of having a full staff to tend to it, so it wasn’t in pristine condition. The windows were dirty from the weather, most of the rooms on the upper floors were closed off and the furniture covered in dust sheets, and apart from Father’s vegetable patch, the garden was wild and untamed. They climbed out of the car and Toby’s nose wrinkled at the muddy driveway, and he picked his way carefully across to the stairs, leaving their luggage to Mycroft.

Mummy bustled ahead, chatting away incessantly to their guest and showing him inside, whilst instructing Father to get more wood for the fire. Sherlock lingered by the car, waiting as Mycroft struggled with his boyfriend’s heavy suitcase. When the boot closed he wordlessly picked up his brother’s duffle bag with one hand and with the other helped him carry the large case over the worst of the puddles. 

“You don’t like him,” Mycroft announced suddenly as they reached the steps. 

The boy shrugged. “I don’t even know him but he doesn’t seem your type.” He glanced at his brother, taking in his markedly changed appearance. The last of his puppy fat was gone, making him look even taller, and his leanness was only enhanced by the well cut suit he wore. His hair was stylishly coiffed and his nails were manicured. “Though perhaps I don’t even know you anymore. You’ve changed since you started uni.”

“No, Lockie, don’t say that! I’m still me, I promise. You’re expected to look and dress a certain way in London and if I want the job I’m after, I have to impress even now. But underneath all that, I’m still me.”

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, unable to see this new version of his brother donning Wellingtons to wade through the reeds in the pond with him to observe the nesting birds, or getting in a supply of cow’s eyes from the butcher and helping his younger brother dissect them, or really doing any of the things they used to do together. He held his tongue though, unable to stop the flutter of hope he had deep down inside. With a shrug, he went through the front door and dumped the bag in the hall, then disappeared upstairs and hid in his room until Mummy called him for dinner.

Over the course of the meal, the family learned that Toby liked to talk. He spoke of the wealthy and influential people he knew, the parties he’d been to, the plans he had for his future. Sherlock wanted to point out that not once in those plans did he mention Mycroft, but since he wanted as little to do with the man as possible, he didn’t say anything. There was a lull in his monologue as he took a long drink of water and so Father jumped in and asked his eldest about his studies. Even then Mycroft only got in a word or two before Toby was talking over the top of him, telling stories of the classes they had together and making it all about him. 

The worst part was that Mycroft didn't seem to care. He smiled indulgently at his boyfriend and even reached over to take his hand while Mummy served up dessert. Sherlock didn't understand the change in his brother and so he sat in silence, eyes down, tracing idle patterns on the tablecloth with his finger. As soon as he was able, he excused himself from the table and went to his room to spend the rest of the night alone. His hopes of actually getting to spend some time with his brother during his trip home were thoroughly squashed and he lay on his bed and sulked until he fell asleep.

As usual, he woke with a cry from a nightmare. He’d suffered them most of his life, the psychologist his parents had called in saying it was the result of his overactive mind unable to turn off even during sleep. As he caught his breath and tried to get his heartrate down, he waited for the door to open and his brother to come. Whenever Mycroft was home he would always wake and then come in to check on Sherlock, lying in the dark with him, telling stories and talking about experiments until the boy would fall back into a dreamless sleep. But tonight he didn't come. The door stayed closed and Sherlock was alone in the dark.

He stared at the ceiling, not wanting to go back to sleep in fear of returning to the nightmares, and his ears picked up a sound from his brother’s room next door. It had sounded like a gasp but he couldn't be sure. He listened carefully and had almost convinced himself he’d imagined it when he heard a low, throaty chuckle. Then another gasp, and then a breathy moan. His eyes widened in shock and he could feel his cheeks burning as he realised what exactly was going on. Mycroft hadn’t come in to check on him because he was much too busy with his boyfriend to care.

Turning over onto his side, Sherlock pulled the pillow up over his head, trying to block out the noises, but it seemed futile. He felt an odd sensation in his stomach, a mixture of butterflies and wanting to be sick, but he didn’t understand what it meant. When Mycroft had sat him down several years ago and had explained that he’d just come out to their parents, he’d patiently answered all of Sherlock’s questions about the logistics in a clinical and scientific manner. Most people would have been shocked that he was being so candid with a ten year old, but Mycroft understood how Sherlock’s mind worked and so he'd explained everything. Now all the young genius could think about was Mycroft doing those things with Toby and the sick feeling in his stomach got even worse. He wanted to barge in there and stop it, to pull them apart, to chase Toby away so he would leave them alone. Mycroft had always belonged solely to Sherlock and it stung now that he didn’t. It wasn’t fair! The brothers had once been inseparable despite the large gap in their ages, but now Mycroft had grown up and moved on and he’d left Sherlock behind.

The boy remained huddled in the dark, unable to sleep and unable to tune out the noises that continued from the room next door for most of the next hour. When he heard his brother cry out, his boyfriend’s name on his lips, the sick feeling in his stomach intensified until he was propelling himself from the bed and hurling the contents of his stomach into the rubbish bin. He knelt, heaving, over the bin, the thump of his heartbeat loud in his ears. When he was sure he wasn’t going to continue being sick he got up on shaky legs and went down the hall to the bathroom. He wasn’t overly quiet as he made his way and he heard frantic whispering from behind Mycroft’s door. “ _ Shit, is that your brother? _ ” followed by the reply, “ _ He’s usually asleep by now,”  _ and then Toby asking, “ _ Do you think he heard us? _ ”. As he reached the bathroom and flicked on the light he heard the door open and footsteps down the hall. It wasn’t long before the doorway was darkened by his brother.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, his eyes widening in concern as he watched his baby brother rinse his mouth out. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Were you sick?”

He patted his mouth dry on a towel and shrugged. “I’m fine. Probably something I ate.”

“You look much too pale. Perhaps we should get in a doctor?”

“It’s nothing, Mycroft. I had a nightmare as well - nothing new.”

A flash of guilt flickered over his brother’s face. “I thought I heard you wake.”

“I figured you must have. The walls  _ are _ rather thin after all,” he retorted. “You can really hear  _ everything _ that goes on in the next room.” Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction at seeing the embarrassment on Mycroft’s face at this, and thought  _ serves you right. _ Before his brother could come up with a sufficient excuse, he pushed past him and headed back to bed. “I’m going to try and go back to sleep. Do try and keep the sounds of your couplings to a dull roar if you’d be so kind.” He caught sight of Toby through the open door, peering out from where he was sitting up in bed, sheets around his waist. With a final sneer at the pompous arse, he went into his room and closed the door with more force than necessary. He couldn’t identify the churning emotions he was feeling at the moment and that in itself was upsetting him. 

The following morning found the three of them sitting awkwardly around the kitchen table while Mummy made breakfast. Sherlock was sullen and grumpy and his brother and boyfriend were still rather embarrassed, and yet Mycroft still attempted to make polite small talk. It annoyed the young genius to no end and so every single thing that his brother mentioned, he twisted into some sort of euphemism. He may not have socialised with his classmates but one didn’t start high school without picking up how to turn everything into a joke about dicks. It worked rather well and by the time Mummy was serving up a heaping platter of scrambled eggs, both of the men were blushing furiously. She remained oblivious to their discomfort and beamed at them all. “So what are you boys going to get up to today?” she asked. “Sherlock has several experiments he’s been waiting for you to help him with, Myc.”

Mycroft caught the pointed look Toby threw him and his eyes fell to him plate in a rather guilty fashion. “Oh, um, well Toby and I had planned to spend the day in town. I thought I’d show him around the place and maybe we’d have lunch out at one of the restaurants.”

He’d expected little else, but Sherlock was still crushed. He hid his upset behind a blank mask and stabbed at his eggs. Mummy looked a little surprised but she shook it off and offered her eldest a smile. “Well, that sounds nice and romantic. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time. You’re here all week so I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to spend with your brother.”

“Yes, I’m sure I can help Lockie with his experiments later.”

Somehow, he never quite got around to it though. He and Toby were gone the entire day and then spent the night curled up together on the couch. The following day they disappeared into the countryside for a picnic, and the day after that they spent the day reading together. Every time Sherlock even suggested Mycroft partake in an activity his brother made polite excuses whilst Toby just looked on in condescension. Sherlock went from feeling put out and upset to annoyed, and then finally he just got mad. Mycroft was  _ his _ brother dammit and he only ever got to see him on the holidays. Mycroft went to the same university as his boyfriend and so Toby got to see him  _ all the time _ . Was it too much to ask for a pitiful couple of hours? When every request was denied, Sherlock started to realise that he would just have to take matters into his own hands. 

On the fourth day the couple disappeared into the garden and found a shady spot under one of the large trees. They’d told Mummy they were going to do some quiet reading but when Sherlock slipped past unseen, they were wrapped in an embrace bordering on inappropriate outside of the bedroom. His stomach churned once more as he watched, and when one of Toby’s hands slipped from under Mycroft’s shirt to down beneath his trousers, the young genius was sure he was going to be sick again. He tore his eyes away and headed further out into the grounds to put his plan in motion. An hour later he emerged from the pond, a bucket full of slimy plants and his trousers soaked with mud. He trudged through the garden towards the secluded tree, nerves making his stomach roil. He wasn’t at all sure what state he’d find the couple in when he reached them and he had no idea how he’d react if he stumbled upon them in the middle of a sexual encounter. 

Luckily it appeared they had grown tired of groping one another and were now both just reading their books. Toby was sitting against the tree with Mycroft leaning against his chest, one of his hands rubbing in absent circles on his chest. Fighting down the nauseas feeling once more, Sherlock barged into the small clearing, swinging his bucket in mock excitement. “Mycroft! Mycroft! Look what I found in the pond! It’s _ Ranunculus Circinatus _ ! It hasn’t been growing for years!” 

His brother immediately perked up at this, excitement in his eyes and Sherlock only felt slightly bad for deceiving him. The local nursery had gotten some of the rare plant in stock several months ago and he’d been helping Father repopulate the pond with the plant, but Mycroft took the bait and assumed it had grown naturally. His brother sat up straighter, pulling away from his boyfriend and looking eagerly to the bucket. “How many plants are there?”

“I only pulled out one to show you, didn't want to ruin the crop.” He dipped his hand into the bucket and stepped forward, pulling out the plant. As he did so he made sure that he feet tangled and he stumbled forward. The contents of the bucket - mostly muddy water and silt - went spilling over both men, but mostly over Toby. Sherlock widened his eyes in faux shock and covered his mouth with his hand, knowing the action would make him appear innocent and slightly younger. “I’m so sorry!” he blurted.

“It’s okay, it was an accident, Lockie. No harm done.”

“No harm?” Toby cried, jumping to his feet and swiping furiously at his suit. “This is an Armani, you clumsy little shit!”

“I said I was sorry!” Sherlock protested, cringing back as if scared.

“Yes, well sorry isn’t going to fix my suit, you imbecile! I doubt it will even be salvageable.”

“ _ Toby _ !” Mycroft gasped in shock. “Don’t you dare speak to my brother that way! It was an accident and he’s apologised.”

“He needs to learn to be more bloody careful!”

“And perhaps you need to learn to not overreact.”

“Overreact?  _ Overreact _ ? It’s an  _ Armani _ , Myc. These things are expensive!”

“If it can’t be dry cleaned then I’ll replace it. There’s no need to have hysterics over it.”

“ _ Hysterics _ ? Are you really accusing me of having  _ hysterics _ ?” Toby was red faced and breathing hard as he looked down on Mycroft who was still sitting on the ground.

“If you take a moment to calm yourself I’m sure even you can see you’re being a little silly,” Mycroft said, rather dryly. 

“If that little shit hadn't been acting so silly over some stupid  _ pond weed _ then I wouldn’t be in this state!”

Getting to his feet, Mycroft glared at his boyfriend. “I told you not to speak about Sherlock that way.”

“I’ll speak about the little troll however I damn well please!”

“You won’t if you want to continue to be with me.”

“Don’t be absurd. Of course you’re not going to break it off simply because I’ve spoken the truth about your git of a brother.”

Sherlock had frozen on the spot, the whole situation getting wildly out of hand. All he’d hoped for was to cause the man to go inside and get changed, leaving him to have half an hour of time with Mycroft. Instead he’d caused a row that was escalating by the second. Mycroft’s entire demeanor had changed towards the man and Sherlock felt a shiver go through him at the icy look he directed at Toby. “No, I’m breaking it off because you can’t respect my family. I’ll call you a cab. By the time it arrives I expect your things to be packed.”

“You’re serious?” Toby spluttered, unable to hide his chagrin at his bluff being called.

“Deadly.” Mycroft turned and took Sherlock by the elbow. “Come, Lockie. Once I’ve called the taxi service, we’ll examine the  _ Circinatus _ under your microscope.” He led them away, leaving his shocked ex behind him. 

After calling for the cab, Mycroft went upstairs with Sherlock on his heels. Other than a quick stop to grab a change of clothes, he avoided his own room and instead they went into Sherlock’s. They both stripped out of their wet and muddy clothes and got changed before sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“I really am sorry,” Sherlock said in a small voice. “I didn't mean to cause you to have such a fight.”

Mycroft smiled at him and ruffled his hair. “It’s not your fault, Lockie. I don’t think Toby and I were really meant to be together anyway. I doubt it would have lasted much longer once we got back to uni.”

“You seemed to be attracted to him,” he said, not understanding how someone could be so physically intimate with someone if they thought it wasn’t going anywhere.

His brother shrugged. “I was attracted to him. We were just too different though for it to be anything long term.”

“Why would you introduce us to him then?” He'd overheard their parents speaking about what a big deal it was that their eldest was bringing someone home to ‘meet the family’.

“Inviting him here was a last minute decision, and obviously a mistake.” He paused as there was a loud bang from the room next door. It sounded like Toby was throwing a large temper tantrum whilst packing his suitcase. “I would never have brought him along if I knew he was going to be so rude to you.”

Sherlock shrugged, the unfamiliar feeling of guilt washing over him once again. “I did ruin his suit…” he ventured.

“I don’t care if you turned his hair pink and burned all his shoes - there’s no excuse to call you such nasty names.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the commotion from next door. The ruckus finally died down and there seemed to be a very pregnant pause, as if Toby was waiting to give Mycroft a chance to rush out and beg forgiveness. When it became apparent that that was not going to happen, they heard him mutter a curse and then trundle his suitcase down the hall to the stairs. Over the  _ thump thump _ of the case bouncing down the stairs, they heard the sound of tyres on the drive as the cab arrived. It wasn’t until five minutes later when the sounds of the cab leaving reached them did Mycroft’s shoulders relax. He let out a long breath and then turned and gave Sherlock a one armed hug. “Right, how about we get out your microscope?”

oOoOo

The next time Sherlock met one of Mycroft’s boyfriends was when he went to stay with his brother in London while their parents went to Spain. His brother didn’t live on campus but in a tiny flat a short distance away. It only had one bedroom and a lounge room that was too small for even a pull out sofa. Sherlock kipped on the couch, folding himself almost in half to fit. He had been there for almost a week before he even found out that Mycroft was seeing anyone. His brother hadn't mentioned a lover at all, he’d just spent the first week of their holidays showing Sherlock around town and doing uni assignments. He was in his final year and seemed dedicated to his studies.

It was Friday night and it was after midnight. The brothers had been out to see a movie and had only been home and in bed for an hour when there was a thumping at the door. Sherlock was only a few feet from it so he stumbled from bed to answer it. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice heavy with sleep.

“Myc, it’s me! Let me in, baby. I’ve missed you so much and I’m aching for your cock.”

Sherlock could do nothing but stare at the wooden door in shock, his cheeks flaming. The sheer lust in the mystery man’s voice made his stomach roil as that old, unrecognised feeling flared again. It had been two years since the incident with Toby and he hadn't felt it since. Twice wasn’t a pattern but he wouldn’t be surprised if it it only showed itself when he was around men that Mycroft was obviously sleeping with. Suddenly wanting to see who had captured Mycroft’s attentions in such a manner, he unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The man was darker than Toby had been but was similar in his bearing and dress. He was also very, very drunk. He swayed slightly on the spot and his eyes didn't seem to be able to focus on Sherlock. “Myc, baby, I’ve missed you,” he slurred, stepping forward.

“I’m not Mycro-” he started to say and then was cut off as the man pulled him in for a sloppy kiss.

“Terrance!” Mycroft barked, having come into the room to see who his midnight visitor was. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing to my  _ underage brother _ ?” 

Terrance let Sherlock go so quickly that the teen stumbled back, his arms pinwheeling as he fought for balance. He gaped at Sherlock, his eyes flickering almost comically between the two brothers. “What?” he asked rather dumbly.

Mycroft had pulled a robe on and he belted it as he stalked forward. “You are drunk and you just kissed my baby brother.” His tone was sharp with anger.

“I thought it was you,” Terrance explained, then took several swaying steps towards Mycroft. “I miss you so much, baby. How bout we go to bed and I show you how much?”

“I told you I would be unavailable for the holidays. I shall see you when we return to classes.”

“But I  _ want _ you,” the man whined. “You know we’re good together.”

Piercing blue eyes narrowed. “I know no such thing. It is not too much to ask that you respect my wishes for me to spend some time with my brother. You said you wanted to prove that you could be mature enough for me to give you a chance but this is proving the exact opposite.”

“No it’s not!” the drunk man protested. “It proves how much I want you, baby!”

Sherlock could see the pet name grated on his brother’s nerves and he couldn’t understand why he allowed the man to use it. He could also see several other things and before he could stop himself, he was talking. “From the stain on your trousers, the bruise on your neck, and the two colognes I smelled on you, it also proves that you are a liar. You’ve been with somebody else tonight, almost immediately before you came here and so all you’ve done is proven how undeserving of my brother you really are.”

Mycroft’s head snapped up and he took a step closer to see Terrance better in the dim light from the hall. Anger rolled off him in waves as he saw for himself the truth of Sherlock’s deductions. “Leave now and never come back,” he growled, pointing at the door.

Terrance stared, slack jawed at this pronouncement, unmoving. “H...how did you know?” he stammered.

“We do not merely see, we observe,” Mycroft told him icily, striding across to the door and holding it open. “Now get out.”

The drunk man wobbled over to the door, his eyes mournful as he took one last look at the eldest brother. “Shame,” he muttered. “You were the best fuck I ever had.” If he was going to say anything else it was cut off by the door slamming in his face.

Silence fell over the brothers and Sherlock fidgeted as he wiped absently at his mouth. So much for romantic first kisses. It felt like he’d been violated by a fish. After a while, Mycroft turned and started to make his way back to his bedroom. Feeling like he had to say something, Sherlock offered a sheepish, “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, Lockie. Entirely mine for not seeing him for what he was in the first place.”

“I’m still sorry though. I didn’t mean to be the cause of another break up.”

His brother turned and gave him a hard look. “Let me be clear - you have not been the cause of either of my breakups. The fault lies entirely with my poor choice in partners.” He suddenly looked tired and Sherlock crossed to him and pulled him into a hug. “Thank you,” Mycroft whispered, returning it firmly. “Now, why don’t we go to bed. If we want to get to the museum tomorrow we’ll need to get an early start so I can finish this paper.”

They broke apart and soon Sherlock was back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. His stomach had settled, eased by the knowledge that Terrance would never get to have his brother again. He knew that soon he would have to examine these odd emotions he was plagued with but he could do that another day. For now he turned onto his side and allowed sleep to claim him.

oOoOo

A week after Sherlock got back from his stay with Mycroft, Mummy made him sit down and watch some ridiculous romantic comedy with her. He grit his teeth and put up with it, knowing that their movie nights were one of her favourite things, but he hadn't even bothered to listen to the name of it. He was distracted more than usual, his mind on his brother, but he couldn't work out why. He knew that the way he had felt each time he’d been confronted with the nature of his brother’s relationships wasn’t a normal reaction, but he still couldn’t understand his visceral response. He wished that he had more experience with things like this, but he’d never bothered much with feelings, preferring instead to turn his mind to science and  _ facts _ . Feelings were so….wishy washy! They were different for everyone and there was no baseline! How was one supposed to quantify them and correctly identify them if they changed from person to person and even from day to day? Ridiculous!

He could feel himself getting more and more worked up and forced his attention to the film on the television. It was silly and brainless but it would serve as a distraction for now. Mummy wouldn’t be pleased if he spent the evening grumbling and moaning about his confusion so it was best if he calmed himself down and waited until the movie had finished and he would be free to return to his room.

He had to hold his tongue several times as the ‘plot’ (for lack of a better word} unraveled. The protagonist lived in a small country town, and one day a hunk of a man moved there. She fell head over heels in love with him and began planning the wedding, her trusty best friend (the scrawny, nerdy variety of the opposite sex) dutifully helping her. Sherlock could see where this was heading - at the wedding, at the very last second, the best friend would declare his love, the protagonist would realise it was  _ he _ she had loved all along, and they would live happily ever after. Mummy was nothing if not predictable in her choices. But then something happened that caught Sherlock’s immediate attention. 

The best friend was speaking to another friend, lamenting about his lost opportunity, nothing new there. Except there was, but not  _ in the film _ . “ _ Oh, Sandy, what am I going to do? _ ” Best Friend whined as he folded origami swans for the reception. “ _ It hurts so much when I see them together, so much that I just want to be sick! All I want to do is grab her and hold her close, mark her as  _ **_mine_ ** _ somehow. But she’ll never look at me that way and all I can do is wallow in my jealousy and watch as she makes a life with him. How am I supposed to make it through the wedding? I’ll be standing by her side, forced to smile like I’m happy for them when instead it’ll be a grimace as I try and stop myself from throwing up all over my suit! But perhaps being sick is the best option, since the only other thing I want to do is punch him in his smug face. But he’d break me like a twig and she’d never want to talk to me again. _ ” He sighed heavily. “ _ I just wish I could tell her how much I love her. Maybe then I’d stop feeling like my heart is going to implode every time I’m forced to watch them share a kiss. _ ”

The scene continued, but Sherlock paid it no heed. He sat, dumbfounded, as his finally identified the odd emotion. Jealousy. He’d been jealous of those twerps. But was it just jealousy that they were stealing away time that he could have been spending with his brother? He tuned out the movie as he debated this, and by the time the credits had rolled, he had come to the full realisation that he was jealous of them because they had gotten to be intimate with Mycroft; had been allowed to touch and kiss, and whisper sweet nothings in his ear; had been the recipients of his affections; had been the ones to bring him pleasure. 

This was a bit not good. He’d watched  _ Flowers In The Attic _ with Mummy and had seen the way she’d cringed at the relationship between the siblings in the film. Nothing else had ever been said about it, but it was clear from her reaction that wanting to be romantically involved with your brother was not acceptable. Would Mycroft feel the same way? How could Sherlock even bring that up with him? Should he even? He’d always shared everything with Mycroft, no matter how embarrassing and he didn't think that was going to change any time soon. Besides, Mycroft  _ never _ judged him, so surely he would listen and then be honest with him about what to do from here? Even if he didn’t feel romantically inclined towards Sherlock, he still loved him as a brother - that wasn’t going to change, was it?

It was almost a month before Sherlock got the courage to speak to his brother. He waited until Mummy and Father had gone out one weekend, down to the Village Pub for a quiz night, and then picked up the phone. It rang for a long time and when Mycroft answered, he was breathless. “Lockie!” he exclaimed. “Sorry, I was in the shower. Give me a second to grab a towel so I don’t drip all over the floor.” 

There was a  _ clunk _ as the receiver was put down and he could hear Mycroft moving about the flat. He was sitting on the couch and he squirmed a little, his trousers having grown a little tight just at the thought of his brother naked and wet. Since his moment of self discovery, Sherlock had spent rather a lot of time picturing Mycroft naked, usually when he was alone in bed, beating himself off furiously as he did so. He always came with Mycroft’s name on his lips, gasped out softly to the empty room. He wondered how his brother would react if he told him that and the thought was both terrifying and arousing. 

A minute later Mycroft was back but the words from his mouth were like a kick in the gut to Sherlock. “I can’t talk long, sorry. I’ve got a date.”

“A date?” he parroted flatly. “I thought after Terrance you’d sworn off dating anyone else until you finished uni?”

There was a heavy sigh. “I said that because I was hurt, Lockie. Things change.”

“What things?” he demanded. 

“Lots of things,” was the evasive response.

“Apparently not that you’re a sex addict!” he announced dramatically. “Really, Mycroft, I didn’t think you were one to crave such carnal desires!” He knew he was being more than a bit silly but he couldn’t help himself.

“You’ll understand one day, Lockie.”

“I don’t think I want to! I’d much rather think with my brain than my cock!”

There was a heavy sigh. “They’re much more aligned than you would think. To put it bluntly, Lockie, sex makes it  _ quiet _ for me. That never ending buzz we have in our heads? It goes away. It’s only briefly and of course it comes with the added inconvenience of having to have a partner to go with it, but for a little while it’s not so loud. We’re so similar that I have a feeling it will be the same for you, so don’t judge me so harshly just yet.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say to that so he stayed quiet.

“What was it you wanted to speak to me about?” Mycroft asked after the silence had stretched out into an uncomfortable minute. “Fahri will be here soon and I need to finish getting ready.”

Images of what he had to finish getting ready  _ for _ flashed through Sherlock’s mind and he suddenly hated this mystery man. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Enjoy your date.” He hung up without bothering to say goodbye and then barely managed to get to the downstairs bathroom before he was bending over the toilet and throwing up. It seemed there was no point in bothering to tell Mycroft about his feelings since he had already moved onto somebody else.

oOoOo

Sherlock didn't find out if sex made his mind quiet because the following year, at the tender age of sixteen, he discovered something else that did. Heroin. He’d been dragged to one of Father’s work dos and had quickly grown bored of the stifling conversation with the old fogeys in the room. He slipped outside, heading to the pool area when he came across a group of older teens. They were lying on reclining lounge chairs and seemed to be dazed and relaxed. One of them peeled open an eye and peered up at the teen in curiosity and he waved a heavy arm at Sherlock, beckoning him over. “You look a bit stressed, cherub,” he said a little vaguely.

Sherlock made a small noncommittal sound but joined him on the recliner anyway. 

“Want some?” the man said, offering him a syringe. “‘s good.”

He looked down at the needle, everything he’d ever been told about the dangers of drug use and sharing needles flashing through his mind, but wanting so much to try it. The man noticed his hesitation and leaned down to rummage in a bag by his side. He pulled out a small plastic package and grinned a little lopsidedly. “Just for you, cherub, you can have a new one.” He ripped the package open, revealing a new needle and despite being high as a kite, expertly swapped it with the old one. He held the syringe out to Sherlock who took it gingerly.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted softly.

The man straightened up, and rubbed at his back. “That’s okay, I can show you, love.” He took the syringe back and pulled Sherlock’s arm into his lap. Sherlock shuddered at a complete stranger touching him in a such a familiar manner but then there was a sharp prick and he winced as the needle was plunged into the crook of his arm. 

Then he was floating.

Sherlock didn't remember details of the night, but he did remember laughing, and a hand stroking his hair idly as he lounged against the man he shared the recliner with, and the feeling of blissful calm in his mind. At one point his new friends left and he curled up on the chair and gazed up at the stars, losing himself in their beauty. When Father found him, he apologised for staying so late, commenting on how sleepy his youngest looked and guided him to the car so they could head home.

It wasn’t hard for the genius to find out how to get more of the drug. Even in a small village, there were people who knew people who knew people. It was kept very hush hush but no one wanted their own secrets given away and so they kept everyone else’s. Money wasn’t an issue - he’d been saving his allowance since he was a child, and so Sherlock began his descent into addiction. It started slowly - more experimentation, only every couple of weeks, but quickly he grew to need more and more, his mind getting louder and louder and only the sweet bliss of the smack giving him the quiet he needed. His grades at school dropped but he was still scoring above average so his parents weren’t informed, and as caught up as they were in their own lives, no one noticed the changes in the young genius.

Until Mycroft came home for Christmas. Sherlock had stopped phoning his brother and when Mycroft rang and asked to speak to him, he always made an excuse to avoid taking the call. So it was that his older brother arrived at the manor house worried and suspicious. Sherlock hid in his bedroom, not bothering to go down to greet the prodigal son, and set about preparing a hit so he could get through dinner without having a crisis. He was lost in his own little world of ritual, still at the point where getting high was an event, so he didn’t hear the door open as he tightened a tie around his upper arm. There was a loud gasp from behind and suddenly there were hands on him, ripping the syringe from him and throwing it across the room before taking him in a firm grip and shaking him. 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re playing at?” Mycroft demanded, anger, hurt, and worry clouding his glorious eyes. 

“Go away,” Sherlock snarled. 

“Why, Lockie? Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“Don’t pretend like you suddenly care!” he yelled, ripping himself free of his brother’s grip. He knew it wasn’t a fair accusation, that Mycroft had always cared for his brother, and that he wouldn’t be able to understand why Sherlock was so mad at him. He had no idea of the feelings the teen was hiding from him, trying to hide from himself. It hurt to have Mycroft near, and it hurt to have him far away, and it hurt to not be able to have him in the way he wanted. Sherlock just hurt and only the high of the heroin, floating on that cloud, could make it go away. “Just leave me alone! I don’t want to see you, Mycroft!” 

“What’s happened, Lockie? What’s wrong?” His brother was pleading now, the anger having faded and instead just fear and worry in its place.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Sherlock cried, his heart breaking, wanting simply to be alone so he could leave his hurt and anguish behind in the bliss of the hit. “No one understands!”

“I can’t if you don’t explain! You can tell me anything, you know this.”

“No, I can’t! I can’t tell you this!”

“Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Trust me, Lockie.”

“No, you’ll hate me!” His face crumpled and a sob broke free from his lips. “You won’t understand and you’ll never want to see me again.”

He was pulled back into Mycroft’s arms but this time it was a gentle embrace. He didn’t fight it, just melted against him, his body overriding his mind in the desire to be close to him. “I could never hate you, Lockie. Don’t you know what you mean to me?” Mycroft murmured, one hand coming up to stroke his back.

“I can’t,” he whimpered brokenly. “I can’t tell you.”

“Shhh, it’s alright. Trust me, Lockie. I’ll do whatever I can to help, to make it better.”

“You can’t make it better, no one can.”

“Whyever not? Please, just tell me what’s upset you so.”

His resolve crumbled. “It’s  _ you _ !” he cried, giving in and letting it all come out. “It’s the thought of you, of what I can’t have that makes me crave oblivion! Don’t you see, Mycroft? I love you! I love you like I shouldn’t, like you’ll never return. I love you and I want you but I can’t have you and it’s destroying me. I don’t want to go on like this, I  _ can’t _ . It hurts too much and I just want it to stop.” His whole body was shaking as he cried, tears streaming down his face to wet his brother’s shirt. “I just don’t want to  _ feel _ anymore. The heroin makes me stop feeling, it makes me float away and forget that I want you in the way I can’t have you. Is it so wrong to want to not hurt anymore? It hurts so much and I want the pain to end, I want to stop being so miserable.”

Mycroft didn’t say anything for a long time after Sherlock had finished pouring his heart out, he just stood there making soothing noises as he rubbed at his back. The teen clung to him, knowing that any moment now Mycroft would step away from him, tell him he had to find a way to forget his feelings, and that they had to pretend this had never happened. It was the last thing he wanted to do but the only thing he knew that they could do. Would it be so very bad for him to just enjoy being in his arms for this oh so brief moment in time?

The moment came and Mycroft stepped back, breaking their hold. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the pity in his brother’s eyes as he broke his heart. A hand touched his jaw, tilting his head up but he refused to open his eyes, refused to look at him. “Lockie,” Mycroft murmured softly. 

Sherlock gave a small shake of his head, preferring to face what was coming blind. There was a soft sigh, and then suddenly there were lips on his. His eyes flew open in time to see Mycroft leaning back away from him, a mixture of fondness and exasperation on his face. “Mycroft?” he asked in a croak.

“You keep saying you can’t have me,” his brother said, his lips twitching in a small smirk. “Who told you that?”

“What do you mean? Everyone knows it’s not allowed!”

He huffed. “Since when have we ever done what everyone said?” He leaned forward again and pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips, his thumb tracing its way over his cheek. “I feel the same, Lockie.”

“But what about all the others? Toby, and Terrance, and Fahri?”

“All just distractions, to help me forget about you. It didn’t work like I wanted. Yes, it made it quieter in my head but it didn’t stop me loving you.”

“Y...y...you love me?” he stammered.

“Oh, Lockie, of  _ course _ I love you. More than you’ll ever know.” He grinned and then quoted, “I love you like I shouldn’t.”

“Oh.” Sherlock surged forward, locking their lips together in a deeper kiss. Mycroft’s arms wound around his waist and Sherlock tangled his fingers in Mycroft’s hair and suddenly he was floating, leaving the hurt and the pain far behind. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
